


christmas lights (keep shinin' on)

by distinguished_like



Category: John Lennon - Fandom, Paul McCartney - Fandom, The Beatles
Genre: !!!!!, 1958, Christmas, First Kiss, First Time, Fluff, M/M, Smut, Winter
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-11-24
Updated: 2017-11-24
Packaged: 2019-02-06 08:35:57
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 12,328
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/12813738
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/distinguished_like/pseuds/distinguished_like
Summary: (prompt: paul takes john to the family christmas party in 1958)"I'd have you," Paul said, eventually, and John felt the air being knocked out of him. "If it was different. If we were different."





	christmas lights (keep shinin' on)

**Author's Note:**

> If you ever want me to write anything, send me a prompt over to distinguished-like.tumblr.com/ask !!! it's so fun, u can be as vague or specific as u like and i'll try my best to make something out of it!!
> 
> i got WAY TOO into this particular prompt tbh but here it is, i hope it's okay!!

“You can come, if you like,” Paul had said, quite innocently, at first. They were at George’s, huddled together in the tiny kitchen, John on the floor with his legs crossed, Paul and George sat at opposite ends of the small, three-seater dining table. “We’re havin’ it at mine this year.”

George scoffed. “Mum would have me,” he said. He had his guitar on his lap, an almost permanent fixture of his character, an extra limb. “Christmas is for the  _family_  and all that – not that there’s owt wrong with yours, Paul.”

Paul pouted at George for a very long time – he was stirring a teaspoon around the cup of tea that Mrs Harrison had made for him, the metal clinking and scraping against the china. John flinched at the sound, an uncomfortable litany. “It’s not  _Christmas,_ ” he corrected. “It’s a Christmas  _party_.”

John spoke up from the floor. “Ye’ might pull Jin if you’re lucky, George. Wouldn’t wanna’ miss out on that, now, would you?”

George laughed, took a sip of his own brew. Paul slumped in his seat, this precious little frown on his face, the expression he pulled when things weren’t going his way, something that the spoilt little  _sod_  wasn’t at all accustomed to.

It was when Paul slowly turned his face towards John that John’s eyes widened, dread filling his gut, his lips pursing – he shook his head manically. “You’re havin’ a laugh, right?” He said, the hint of a laugh in his tone. Paul stared on at him, and John suddenly felt under attack. “ _No_.”

Paul tilted his head prettily in John’s direction, the way his lips poked out, plump and ridiculous, offending him immensely. “Please?” He begged, his voice child-like, low and inviting. John shook his head, locked eyes with George for help. George just shrugged, so John shot him a dark and threatening glare.

“It’ll be  _fun_ ,” Paul pressed. “You’ll like it, John, honestly.”

John scoffed loudly. “Not bloody likely,” he defended, running a hand through his quiff as if for emphasis. “Me in a household of your charming relatives? I’ll be _lynched.”_

“Ye’ won’t,” Paul drawled; he spun a little in his seat, jiggling desperately. John just exhaled harshly at the sight. “I swear, they’ll like you, it’s fine.”

George shot Paul a _look_ from beneath his heavy-set eyebrows. Paul looked at him, and John was grateful for the relief. “What?”

George shook his head. “Your dad hates him,” he pointed out. “No offence, John.”

“None taken,” John said, amiably. “Fair point, well said.”

“He doesn’t!” Paul exclaimed defensively, suddenly bolt-upright in his seat. George maintained his steady gaze, and John thought he’d never felt more grateful to have the scrawny bugger around. Paul spun towards John in turn. “He doesn’t, John, he’s just–”

“I  _understand_ ,” John said, cutting Paul off. He waved a hand nonchalantly through the air, feigning a role of calmness and clarity – neither of which he felt particularly aligned to. He heard Paul sigh, exasperated. “He’s  _obviously_ intimidated by my booming masculine authority. I wouldn’t want me in  _my_ house, either.”

“It’s true, you know,” George quipped, and Paul snarled at him beneath the curls of his hair. “He’s a menace to have around. It’s a surprise anyone can stand him.”

“Bit far, dickhead,” John called from across the room. “Thanks anyway.”

“Only the best intentions,” George replied, sitting back in his seat, a fiendish smirk on his lips. He sipped his tea innocently.

“Oh, I’m  _sure_ ,” John spat. George just giggled into his brew.

“John,” Paul pleaded, again. John groaned loudly, flailing his legs about the kitchen tiles childishly. “John, it’ll be nice! You love Christmas!”

“Since  _when?”_

“Since, you know. It’s  _Christmas_ – makin’ merry, and all that.”

The thing is, John didn’t  _hate_  Christmas, not by any means – it had been a jolly little affair once, that much was true. At Mendips, though, Christmas always felt a little bit tense, somehow. They had a  _schedule_  to follow; he didn’t even get a lie in. Mimi would have him up at the crack of dawn and, in recent years,  _drag_  him down the stairs to open his presents. Which he  _was_  grateful for, really – she did a bang-up job at that stuff, did Mimi, and she was a right soft-arse for it. But then it was off to church by ten, phone calls to all the extended family with endless forced  _thank you_ s and  _I loved it!_  and  _such a shame you couldn’t be here_  for the rest of the evening, then being ushered out of the kitchen as she cooked. He didn’t have Uncle George around for company anymore, and now even his mum couldn’t call over, like she always used to. His heart clenched at the prospect, and he winced a little at the inevitability of the deadpan silence between him and Mimi, a few secretive tears shed on Mimi’s part; tears she wouldn’t let John  _see,_  but he knew were there anyway. It was a droll, lonely season. A  _chore_ , more than anything. He wanted it over and done with.  _The first times are always the hardest,_  one of his aunties had declared tearfully at Julia’s funeral. The words stuck with John like a guillotine preparing to fall.

John cocked an eyebrow in Paul’s direction. “If it’s gonna’ be so much fun, why d’you need us there at all?”

George hissed. “ _Oof_ , nice one.”

John looked at Paul expectantly, waited. Paul seemed a lot smaller, like he was well and truly defeated. He opened his mouth, then closed it again a few times.

“Hm?” John prompted, knowing his point had come across as perfectly valid.

Paul slumped in his seat, raised his arms up then let his palms collide with the table. “ _Fine_ ,” he relented. “Don’t fuckin’ come. Da’ hates you anyway.”

John gasped, clasped a hand against his chest. “ _Ouch,_  Paulie,” he said. “Now  _that_  – that  _really_  hurt me feelings.”

Paul shot him a glare. “Oh, piss off,” he grumbled. “Are we practicin’ for this bloody wedding or what?”

John had been grateful, at the time, that the topic was dropped – but as the big day loomed on the horizon, Paul had persisted, dropping more and more hints as time went by. Eventually, as John had feared, Paul brought it up for the second time.

“Please come,” Paul had begged, again, when they were writing on one hideously smoggy December afternoon at his house. John had sighed, closed his eyes, started rubbing his temples with the tips of his fingers. “Honestly, it won’t be so bad – you’ll probably enjoy it in the end.”

“Why d’you want me to come so bloody much anyway?” He snapped at him, squinting violently. He strummed his guitar. “It’s not like I’ll be the merriest of company.”

Paul shrugged. “It’ll be fun _ner,_ ” he said. “And, I don’t know. It might do you some good.”

John glared. “What, getting a pretty glimpse at functional family life, eh? I’m sure  _that’ll_  lift my spirits good and proper – thanks, Macca. Really appreciate it.”

Paul sighed. “Look, will you just consider it?” He said. “It’d be nice to have you there, is all. For me, like.” A second of slightly unnatural silence spread between them – John felt his heart twitch at the statement, shook his head.

“Let’s sort through this middle-eight,” he diverted. “I’ve got me dinner waitin’ for me.”

It didn’t make much sense, in hindsight, why Paul’s words had engraved themselves into the back of John’s mind.  _It’d be nice to have you there. For me._  It was a throwaway bit of drivel; a harmless, heart-tugging use of rhetoric.

When Christmas Eve rolled around, John had begun to feel increasingly agitated. Mimi had been running around the gaff like a maniac, wrapping last minute presents – John couldn’t enter a single room in the house without her screaming  _“Get out – get out, John! Close your eyes!”_  like he didn’t know what she was doing, like he was still a kid thinking it was some bearded chubster and his mythical, indentured servants who sorted all his presents.

John found himself taking a long time getting changed that afternoon, making a reasonable effort –  _just to pass the time,_  of course. He threw on a freshly ironed white shirt and tie, his formal occasion shoes that Mimi had bought him against his will. He kept the drainies on, though. Nothing if not consistent.

It was by pure chance when, at about five in the afternoon, he marched out of the house and found himself,  _coincidentally_ , pacing uselessly up and down Forthlin Road, considering his options carefully. A couple of times, he spotted Paul’s familiar silhouette through the curtains of number 20 as he got, presumably, ordered about by Jim, hanging additional decorations all about the place. At one point, Paul opened the curtains to hang a strip of gold tinsel along the pole – John flung himself, gracelessly, behind the hedges surrounding the garden.

He’d started to creep away, hunched over against the pavement, the ends of his coat dragging against the damp,  _sure_ that he’d gotten away with it, when he heard the door fling open. He froze in place, considered making a run for it. He watched his breath vaporise in front of him in the cold – the sun had set, the sky a blanket of darkness, and he willed himself to become a part of it.

He heard footsteps marching down the garden.

“Are you planning on coming in?”

John snapped his head up, saw Paul craning over the hedges, looking down at him. John smiled stupidly, tried to act like this was deliberate. Somehow.  

“No,” he answered, shrugging. “Sometimes I do this, you know, crouch outside your house.”

Paul arched a dark, thin eyebrow at him, was blatantly fighting the temptation to smile. “Is that so?”

John nodded fervently. “Yep,” he said confidently, standing upright and dusting himself off. He spun to smirk sensually at Paul. “It thrills me to be near you, Paulie.”

This time, Paul did grin. “Fuck off,” he exclaimed, started walking back towards the opened front door. John jogged around the bushes and through the gate.

“That’s no way to talk to yer’ honoured guest,” John chastised, and Paul laughed – the sound warmed something inside of John, and suddenly he was a little bit grateful just to be around him, easing some of the residual tension that he’d felt when tiptoeing around Mimi earlier in the day. He wished he’d had the foresight to bring his guitar, because the next best thing to just being  _with_  Paul was making music with Paul – a medicine for all ills. Nearly.

When they entered the house, Paul was stood in the hallway, kicking off his shoes. John went to copy him.

“Oi,” Paul hissed, and John started, looking around like he was talking to someone else. He widened his eyes at him incredulously. “Wipe yer shoes. Take them off.”

John rolled his eyes and did as he was told. “Been spring-cleaning, have we, Paul?”

Paul sighed. “A woman’s work is never done,” he joked, his voice dark, and then whacked John on the arm. John watched as he made his way past him and towards the living room, poking his head through the door there.

“Dad,” he hollered. “John’s here.”

“John who?”

“Lennon,” Paul answered, and John could practically hear the  _who else?_  that nearly made its way into the end of the statement, but didn’t make the final cut.

“Oh,” Jim let out a surprised noise. John watched Paul open the door a bit wider and, as he started to kick off his final shoe, spotted Jim in the doorway holding a thick knot of gold, red and green tinsel in his hands. He looked him up and down, regarded him for a long moment. Paul gazed down at his feet – John smiled up at the elder.

“Paul said you’re not much of a Christmas person,” Jim said.

John felt awkward, undoubtedly – always did around Jim McCartney, with those piercing eyes, like he could see every sin you’d ever committed written all over your face in bold, brash calligraphy. John could only imagine what Jim saw when he looked at him – big, black, capitalised letters across his forehead –  _T R O U B L E._

“Well,  _bah humbug,_  and all that,” John laughed, trying to sound charming, the same way that Paul spoke to people, but he knew when he spotted Paul smack his palm against his face in shame that it didn’t  _quite_  come out the way he’d intended.

“Right,” Jim said, slowly. John grinned lopsidedly.

A moment of stiff silence followed, until Paul cleared his throat. Jim looked back down at his son.

“Well, you two had better make yourselves scarce,” he declared, sighing like John had ruined his evening already. “Jin’ll be here soon with the buffet. Hang on,” he disappeared behind the door and returned seconds later with his wallet open in his hand. He took out a few bob, placed it trustingly in Paul’s hands. “Nip to the shop whilst it’s still open,” he commanded. “Pick up some pop, for the kids,” he went on. “Some crisps or something, too. Just some bits. Nothin’ daft.”

Paul nodded, obedient as he was. John moved immediately to put his shoes back on, tried not to grumble at the inconvenience.

“Can I keep the change?” Paul asked, his voice high and hopeful, innocent as a cherub. “Get myself something?”

John heard Jim grumble to himself, clearly not an immediate fan of the idea. When John got his shoes back on, he turned to wait for Paul, his hands in his coat pockets. Paul had his decent gear on, too – a cute little suit, of sorts, with a more casual tweed jacket over his shoulders. His hair was combed beyond belief, flat against his forehead, pushed a little to the side at Jim’s request, undoubtedly. Jim appeared to still be in his work clothes.

“If you must,” he said, eventually, a sigh in his tone. “Just don’t let Michael catch wind of it. All hell will break loose.”

“Thanks, Dad,” Paul said, his voice sounding unnaturally articulate compared to his usual scouse, laddish twang. John smiled at Jim as he retreated back into the living room.

Paul spun, grinned at John eagerly. John threw him a questioning look.

“Have you got any ID on you?” He whispered, his voice eager, his eyes alight and mischievous.

John sighed. “S’that all I’m bloody good for? Gettin’ you shit you’re too young for?”

Paul raised a finger against his lips, shushed him. John grinned a little, unable to help himself. Alcohol would make this easier, definitely – he could probably  _just about_  deal with being hungover in church the next morning.  _Just about_. Paul after a couple of drinks was always a charming little creature, too – he was flirtatious at the best of times; with a drink in him, he might as well have been humping John’s leg. John remembered the first day they met, after Paul had managed to convince some unassuming gentleman to buy him a few beers. The closeness with which Paul would stand to John, winking at him, leaning into him as he played on the piano at the back of the church. Excitement churned at the periphery of John’s better senses.

With a giggle in his throat, Paul leaned against the bannister and slid on his trainers – John noticed the absurd amount of space between Paul’s trousers and Paul’s skin, choked down a laugh.

“Jesus Christ, Paul,” he chuckled. “Ye’ could fit the both of us in those.”

Paul’s expression was caught somewhere between a devilish smirk and an equally intimidating glare. “Mhm, and wouldn’t you like that?” He teased. John felt his cheeks flush at the boldness of the comment.

“You fancy yourself, you do,” he observed, like that would take the weight away from what Paul had actually  _said_  – not an ounce of alcohol in him.

Paul giggled, grabbed his coat off the end of the bannister and flung it over his jacket. He rooted around in the pocket for a moment, his eyes lighting up, soft wrinkles appearing at the edges.

“Good to go?” John asked, making a step towards the door impatiently. The whole house suddenly felt overbearingly humid, and no other guests had even arrived yet. He had to battle off the need to loosen the collar of his shirt.

“Always,” he answered. John opened the door, duly whispered,  _after you_ , tried not to focus too much on Paul feigning a swoon as he breezed past him, his eyelashes batting against the white of cheeks.

They walked through the chill of the early evening silently, for the most part – the streetlights lit their way, off-yellow orbs glaring at the damp pavement. They passed a few houses which had gone all out – inflatable Santa’s on the patios, LED signs forcing  _“Merry Christmas!”_  down their throats with no abandon. One had, quite creatively, stuck a pair of fat, red-covered legs out of a chimney top. Dedication.

John pulled out a cigarette from his coat pocket, considered taking his glasses off so he didn’t have to actually  _look_  at any more bright, uncomplimentary colours drawn up in windows, outside houses, dangling from drainpipes.

“Can I have one?” Paul asked as he raised it to his lips. John shot him a scowl.

“Like I said,” he started, fishing for an extra cigarette anyway. “All I’m bloody good for. Giving you–”

“Shit I’m too young for, yeah, I know,” Paul laughed. “Let me off, will you? It’s Christmas. Although am not  _technically_  too young for this, mind you.”

“Yer young enough that you can’t keep your ciggies in your own house for fear of Jim findin’ them,” John pointed out. He passed Paul the cigarette, pulled his hand away quickly when their fingers brushed.

Paul laughed and twiddled the cig between his fingers while John rooted through every pocket he had on him for his lighter. Paul fell silent for a moment, then spoke again.

“What made you change yer mind, anyway?” He asked, and John rolled his eyes, still patting himself down.

“Mimi,” he said, not an entire lie. “Peckin’ head.”

Paul nodded, and John pretended like he couldn’t see the smirk tugging at the sides of his mouth. “Okay,” he submitted. He nodded towards John, who was still searching for a lighter. “No luck?”

“None such,” John sighed. They kept walking, turning onto the main road – a man in a long trench coat and a bowler hat, cig burning between his lips, was strolling parallel to them on the other side of the street.

John caught Paul’s eyes for a moment. “Bear with,” he excused. He jogged over the road towards the fellow. “’Scuse me,” he called, and was ignored. “’Scuse me, mate – have you got a light on you?”

When John reached the pavement, the man regarded him for a long moment before nodding, handed him an old steel zippo lighter. John put his cig back between his lips, lit it, handed the lighter back. “Cheers, pal,” he nodded. The man nodded back, a cold look on his face, and scooted past John like he wasn’t even there. “And a Happy New Year to you, too,” he grumbled, before darting back over the road, narrowly missing a single car.

When he returned to Paul, Paul was looking at him with his hands raised questioningly, a slightly offended look on his face.

“What?” John asked, frowning.

“I needed a light, too,” he complained.

“Woops-a-daisie,” John called, his voice high-pitch and taunting. “I’ll just take my cigarette back – sorry about that, Mac–” he leaned a hand out to reach for the cigarette between Paul’s fingers, which Paul then smacked away.

“Stop bein’ a nob,” he said. “Give us yours to light it off.”

John took a drag, considered Paul carefully. Instead of doing as he asked, he placed the cig back between his lips, held it there and leaned forward as if waiting for a kiss – a comparison which he threw to the back of his mind rapidly – lips drawn in a grin around the butt.

Paul groaned. “Here? In the middle of the street?”

John nodded, still smiling, widened his eyes and batted his eyelashes patiently.

With one more grumble of discontent, Paul placed his own cig between his lips and, looking around to make sure no one was watching, leaned in to press the end against the lit end of John’s.

John didn’t think this through, he realised. He maintained eye-contact with Paul as he sucked on the butt of his smoke, his lips puckered, pink and damp, around the end. Paul raised a haughty eyebrow towards John, so John, naturally, raised one back. Paul’s eyes were wide, glistening with the street lights that surrounded them, a stray hair from his fringe tangling with his eyelashes; orange glowed between them, smoke rising from the sticks that joined them together. John’s mouth went dry.

When Paul pulled away, John cleared his throat; inhaled some of his own cigarette, then removed it from his mouth easily. They proceeded walking.

“You’re welcome,” John said, and Paul smirked at him, exhaling a lungful of smoke in one long, cool blow.

“You’re an arsehole,” Paul said, eventually.

“Mhm, is that why I’m here instead of your bird, then?”

Paul blinked, frowned at him. John didn’t know what possessed him to say it, but he’d been wondering about it since Paul had been so adamant that he wanted John to come. He’d asked George, too, but seemed to surrender easier under George’s refusal, despite John putting up just as much a fight, if not more so. Based on Paul’s hesitation to respond, John supposed that perhaps he had been right – perhaps Paul  _had_  wanted him there, simply for the sake of having  _him_  there. He wasn’t usually one to get his hopes up, but regardless, the hope was there. He didn’t quite know what to do with it.

“No,” Paul said. “She – she had family stuff on.”

John nodded. “’Course,” he relented. “Not one for the long haul, then?”

Paul barked out a laugh. “I mean, probably not,” he answered, like it was obvious. Paul had only been seeing Layla for a few weeks – she was quite a bit older than him, something that ordinarily John would have been impressed by. Instead, it unnerved him.  _A lot._

“Poor Layla,” John sighed. “Me heart bleeds for her.”

Paul shook his head, took a drag of his smoke. “I don’t reckon she’s all that keen.”

John, despite himself, howled in disbelief. “You are jokin’, surely?”

“No, actually,” Paul confirmed.

“You can do better anyway,” John scoffed. “Slag.”

“Calm down,” Paul laughed. “She’s not that bad. I can’t be  _everyone’s_  cup of tea. She’s not much my type anyway.”

John shot him a look. “You’ve got a type now?”

Paul nodded. “Everyone’s got a bit of a type.”

John could see the shops looming on the horizon – the newsagents was conveniently next door to the winies. There, John assumed, him and Paul would part ways, allowing John to purchase the alcohol without inconvenience. Still, curiosity niggled at the forefront of his mind.

“What’s yer type, then?”

Paul tapped the side of his nose. “Ah, Johnny boy,” he started. “’S for me to know.”

John frowned, unsettled, but drew on the subject no further.

“What do you want, then?”

Paul shrugged. “Dunno. Somethin’ cheap. ‘ve not got a lot.”

“Wine?” John suggested.

Paul laughed. “Bit queer,” he stated, and John’s insides twisted uncomfortably.

“Cheap and a reasonable percentage,” John argued. They stopped outside the row of shops; Paul’s cheeks were singed pink from the cold, now illuminated by the white lights seeping through the windows. Their breaths danced around them. “Red, white or rosé?”

Paul sighed. “Red, I suppose,” he agreed. “Whichever’s cheapest, really.”

“Good lad,” John said. “Cash?”

Paul rooted through his pockets, handed John a few notes. “Will that be enough?”

John shrugged. “We’ll soon see,” he said, and, throwing his cigarette into the road, entered the shop.

 

 

By the time they returned to Paul’s, Jin had arrived and was admittedly warmer towards John than Jim had been. John got his first glance of the living room – the furniture had all been pushed against the walls and the rug had been rolled up and moved upstairs, leaving generous space for a number of people to move around, have a bit of a dance. The coffee table was nowhere to be seen, and the dining room table in the parlour had been shoved against the windows that faced the back garden. It was covered in pretty, white linen, on top of which sat trays of sandwiches, pigs in blankets, mince pies, the crisps and snacks Paul had bought now dispersed into respective crystal bowls.

Tinsel in various colours hung from the lights and had been draped along the ceiling with sellotape. The McCartney’s Christmas tree was small, fake, decorated a little bit sparsely but with some certain flairs of character. It had been propped up onto a table to make it seem bigger, and John regarded it for a long time – Mimi had always made such a gallant effort when it came to the tree. Poor old George used to spend hours upon hours putting up the lights, then removing them because they  _weren’t placed right_  or  _you missed a branch in the middle_  or  _a bulb’s gone, use the back-ups instead;_  there was some bizarre sense of catharsis in seeing this, a shabby little thing, with a cheap, plastic star on top. John could imagine Paul leaning up and placing it there with scrutinising accuracy, fiddling with it till it sat just right, his t-shirt lifting up over his stomach, revealing a trail of dark hair leaking downwards from his naval, perhaps.

Paul sidled up next to him, his arms folded. His jacket had come off, and his shirt hung a little loose off his shoulders, the sleeves folded half way up his arms. John’s was comparatively snug, still tucked into his dark drainies. When John had taken his coat off, Paul had stared at him, his eyes agape.

“Blimey,” he’d said. “Someone’s made an effort.”

John would be lying if he said the acknowledgement didn’t satisfy him, somewhat.

“Like my handiwork, then?” Paul asked, nudging John’s arm softly. Paul looked down at him, then back up at the tree. Mike was sat in the corner of the room shuffling through a box of old records, compiling a playlist for the evening.

“This all you?” John gasped, feigning shock. “Wow. Should be at the college with me, you, you know.”

Paul nodded. “Yeah, I was really going for a biblical theme, you know? This bauble here –” he pointed towards a pearl coloured one, “represents the Virgin Mary. All virginal, and stuff. And this one –” he tilted his head towards a red one, the same colour as the wine that John had bought, “represents the forbidden fruit – _sin._ ”

John nodded, rubbing his chin between his thumb and index finger. “Ahh,” he nodded thoughtfully.  _“Symbolism.”_

Paul laughed.

“He’s lying,” Mike chided from behind them, not looking up from the box. “I did it. He just puts the fuckin’ star on top and pretends like he did all the work at the end of it.”

John and Paul spun to look at Mike. “The star’s the most important bit,” Paul argued. “You’re just pissy ‘cause you can’t reach the top yet.”

John chuckled. “You’ll get there one day, our kid,” he reassured, and Mike shot him a slightly bashful glare beneath his own unruly hair.

John and Paul shared a sly grin at Mike’s expense, then started towards the door to head up to Paul’s room, where their stash was hidden.

When they got there, Paul shut the door behind them, locked it, and John moved to remove the two bottles of red from the bag hidden beneath Paul’s bed – the bottles clinked together, and John hissed.

 _“Shhhh,”_  Paul said, looking a bit panicked. “If Dad finds out he’ll fuckin’ kill me.”

John looked up at him, an incredulous look on his face. “Think he might figure it out when you’re lurchin’ over into the flowerbeds, spewin’ your insides.”

Paul shook his head and sat on the bed beside John, the single mattress dipping momentarily. “I’m not gonna’ get to that state,” he reassured. “S’just a bit of fun.”

John nodded. “Well, I won’t be here in the mornin’ to look after ye’.”

Paul rolled his eyes. “I’ll be fine.”

“If you’re lucky, Father Crimble might bring ye’ a couple of Alka Seltzer,” John nudged Paul in the ribs. “Assuming you’re on his  _nice_  list, of course.”

Paul snatched one of the bottles from John, stared dejectedly at the cork. John rolled his eyes, took the bottle back off Paul, bit down on the cork and yanked it out with his teeth, a trade he’d mastered from a young age.

“Thanks,” Paul said. John repeated the action with his own bottle, his gums a little numb.

“To Christmas?” John offered, lifting his bottle towards Paul’s.

Paul grinned, looking brave, his cheeks already flushed despite the lack of alcohol he’d actually consumed. He looked good in that shirt, John thought – not too formal, a handsome disheveled atmosphere about him, his tie hanging a little loosely around his throat.

“To Christmas,” he echoed, clinking their bottles together  _carefully_ , so as not to elicit much of a noise while the rest of the house was deadly silent. When Paul raised the rim of the bottle to his lips, John watched him glug down a few gulps, his lips puckered around it. John downed a fair amount of his own – about a glass’ worth, maybe. The wine tasted sweet and the alcohol pulsed through his veins, his chest feeling a little tight near instantly.

Paul lowered the bottle, and his lips had a pretty red glow about them, a little bit of the wine trickling down the side of his mouth.

John reached out to wipe it off, forgetting for a second that that wasn’t something he should do. Paul frowned at him, and John lowered his arm, slowly, turned to face the wall across the room.

“Um,” Paul said. “Thanks?”

“What else are friends for,” John coughed. Both of his hands gripped the bottle of the wine lazily between his thighs, which were spread frankly uncomfortably far apart, but it made him feel powerful – reassured his masculinity.

Paul took another sip of wine, and then John heard a series of voices spilling into the house from downstairs. “Hello?” A woman had shouted. “Jim?”

Paul grinned, nudged John with his elbow. “ _And so it begins,”_  Paul had declared. John groaned but found, surprisingly, he didn’t mind much at all.

 

 

“Oh, James,” an elderly woman called. She was sat on the sofa, so small and frail that she seemed to be disappearing amongst the cushions. Most of the other adults had gravitated naturally to the back room and the kitchen, smoking pipes and cigs and chatting about the economy, or whatever it was that them lot did. One young-ish mother was sat in Jim’s armchair, holding a newborn against her chest, chuckling at the pandemonium in front of her.

John had been leaning against the wall by the living room door, watching Paul interact with his little cousins with some level of wonder. He’d never been good with kids. Or adults. Or anyone, really, but least of all kids. Paul was bobbing a toddler expertly on his hip, chatting happily in a dumbed-down tone that somehow still didn’t ring patronising to John’s, or their, ears. He frowned deeply.

Paul spun to the elderly woman. The house was pretty packed – John had no idea that Paul had this many family members, all of whom he seemed to  _know_ , at least  _reasonably_  well. People were ringing up Mendips all the time who John had never even heard of, yet were apparently his  _Auntie Janice_  or  _Cousin Steve_.

“You alright, Auntie Kath?” Paul called back. He was being pulled in all directions by the near dozens of kids surrounding him – the youngest might have been about one, the one clinging onto Paul’s neck. The oldest, perhaps about eight or nine, was yanking on his now untucked shirt, trying to get him to pay her some mind. They were ripping him to shreds. John bit down on his fists, trying not to laugh.

“James, darling,” she persisted, and John outwardly snorted at the use of that name. James. Paul didn’t  _look_  like a James. He was  _Paul._ Or  _Paulie._  Or  _Macca._  Or  _Princess,_  if the context was fitting. “Do us a song on the piano, won’t you? Jim says you’re getting good!”

John scoffed, the thought that Paul was ever once  _not_ -good at anything baffling to hear. Paul was good at  _everything_ , a natural talent and, consequently, an inherent show-off.

An old Christmas tune, Gordon Jenkins’ orchestra’s  _White Christmas_ , rose quietly from the communal record player that Mike had placed beside the telly.

“Oh, I don’t know about that,” Paul blushed. He’d managed to grab a hold of the eldest’s hand, and she was now doing something of a pirouette beneath Paul’s arm, giggling hysterically. “I think me da’ will be playing us all something soon, you know.”

As the words left his mouth, Jim turned the corner into the living room. He’d gotten changed since earlier, was sporting an old tailored suit, suspenders and all – the blazer must have come off at some point. He chuckled at the sight of Paul, shook his head almost fondly – then took on a sterner looking front.

“Paul,” he warned. “Don’t say no to your auntie – play something for her.”

Paul looked up at his dad, smiling, bashful but totally not. John knew that Paul would have given in eventually, without, even, much of a fight, especially with that glass and a half of red wine in his belly. He was holding up well, John thought – was a bit chatty, mind, and giggly, but nothing near  _drunk_. John considered slipping away to steal a bit more when, suddenly, he was spoken to.

“What do you reckon, John?” Paul said. He was looking at him, now, appearing frankly a bit exhausted. The toddler on his hip was tugging at a bit of his hair, and he had to let go of the ballerina to untangle her grip, gently mumbling  _don’t do that, please, Annie,_  before looking back at John. John’s heart did a little somersault at the sight. “Fancy a duet?”

John laughed, loud but withdrawn. He’d not done much socialising, as anticipated – he’d offered a few  _hello_ ’s as Paul introduced him, but that was about it. “No, no one wants to hear my screachin’.”

“Oh, go on, the pair of you!” Jim exclaimed, uncharacteristically cheerful. “They’re in a group, you know, Lil.”

The woman with the newborn smiled warmly. “Just like his dad,” she chuckled, and Paul blushed a little. He gave Annie a little peck on the top of her head, then set her down. She toddled _, very_  precariously, towards Lil, gripped her knee for support, then looked up at John, who was directly beside them.

“Sog?” She asked, her eyes wide, looking a lot like Paul’s. John’s eyebrows furrowed and he leaned down towards her.

“Sorry, pardon?” He said.

Lil laughed. “ _Song,_  she said.”

Paul tutted. “Come on, John, you can’t say no now,” Paul sauntered over to where John stood, his hands on his hips. “Look at her  _face._ ”

John looked between Paul and Annie, spluttered over his words. He was a confident performer, that much was true, but in a setting as intimate and homely as this, he didn’t reckon he’d fare too well. Under the weight of  _two_  sets of Paul’s eyes, though, his demise was imminent.

“Do that Loesser one!” Kath heckled, and John laughed.

“Oh, giddy,” he exhaled, sweat pooling around the base of his back with what, he figured, was anxiety. He looked at Paul with disdain to see Paul blinking up at him, his hands clasped together against his chest,  _fucking pouting,_  again. “Christ – go on, then.”

He heard Jim clap from the side of the room, and John reveled a little in the feeling of Paul’s fingers wrapped around his wrist, tugging him towards the piano in the corner. Paul slid onto the bench first, and John followed. John thought, in a moment of mis-recognition, perhaps, that Paul’s fingers lingered against the back of John’s hand for longer what was strictly necessary – grazed the tips across John’s wrist before bringing them to the piano with typically effeminate gentility.

“Loesser!” Lil shouted, now, and Jim laughed, amused.

“Which one’s that, then?” Paul asked.

“You know that one!” He exclaimed, and Paul blinked at him, shook his head.

“You do – the one – erm, you know –  _I really can’t_  – bit of help, ladies and gents?” He spun on his seat to look at Lil and Kath and they carried on for him, some of the littlens’ pitching in as well.

 _“I really can’t stay,”_  the room pitched in, and one young boy, about seven, sang, in his best,  _lowest_ voice,  _“but baby it’s cold outside!”_

“Oh, yeah!” Paul settled eventually, and John wondered if he was just having them all on, a bit of healthy audience participation – John wouldn’t be surprised. He knew how to get a room going, did Paul.

He spun around to the piano, cleared his throat, and John suddenly felt a bit useless, there. He was still a bit shite at piano, could only really play it if he was making his own stuff up – could play the odd Little Richard tune after a few months’ practice.

Paul pressed a chord with his left hand, then, pausing, brought his right hand over John’s. John nearly jumped out of his seat, and he snapped his eyes up to look at Paul.

Paul just laughed. “Here,” he said, bringing John’s hand onto the piano. He separated his fingers to where they needed to be, made him press down. “Then,” he moved them again, a little further up the keys. “There,” he continued. “It’s a similar thing, over and over, you know how it goes.”

John cleared his throat. “Right,” he said, nodding his head. “Go on then.”

Paul grinned. He played the intro himself, swaying his head lazily in either direction; John watched his fingers slide prettily along the keys with such autonomous ease and fluidity, and a part of him cringed in envy – he pushed it away.

Paul slammed his hands down onto the keys, suddenly, turned his face towards John, looking a bit more than slightly manic, calling,  _“Hey baby, where you goin’?!”_  in an unbecoming American intonation.

John laughed, loudly. He tried with all his might to get the right sort of pitch – he was playing the  _bird_ , for Christ’s sake – but settled instead on somewhere a bit in the middle, finding somewhere that was both comfortable and in-tune, though his voice was admittedly raspy around the edges.

 _“I really can’t stay,”_  he sang, swooning and batting his eyelashes in Paul’s direction. Paul was playing the left-hand chords, John the right, the melody passing between them with, to John’s surprise, pretty decent rhythm. He leaned his own left hand on Paul’s shoulder, crooning down his ear as he sung the lyric.

Paul shook his head, his eye catching John’s, then looked back down to his hand.

 _“But, baby, it’s cold outside,”_  he sang back, a laugh present in his voice. John felt indescribably alive with it all.

 _“I’ve got to go away,”_  John crooned, and Paul echoed back his own line, leaning into John, warmth spreading between them. Their hips were brushing against each other as they swayed, jolly and, perhaps, a little tipsy.

_“This evening has been…”_

_“So happy that you dropped in…”_

John sang the next line with animation, swaying and tilting his head back, raising his spare hand towards his forehead in a delicate swoon. He heard the kids squealing with laughter behind him – until then, it had been easy enough to forget that anybody other than John and Paul had been in the room at all.

_“So very nice…”_

Paul gripped John’s left hand with his right, intertwined their fingers and brought both of them up between their faces; Paul was gleaming at him with sheer joy, and John suddenly wanted to pull his hand away, aware of his palm becoming humiliatingly clammy. He didn’t, though. He stared at Paul, his jaw hanging open, eyes wide.

_“I’ll hold your hands, they’re just like ice…”_

John cleared his throat, forcing out a chuckle.  _“My mother will start to worry…”_

Paul nudged John in the ribs, grinning. The next line sounded a little more spoken, perhaps through the laughter, but hearing Paul address him in such a way that it sounded like it could simply be Paul  _speaking to him,_  his  _own words,_  sent goosebumps running up John’s arms.  _“But, beautiful, what’s your hurry?”_ and then, again, a few lines after, when Paul sang,  _“Beautiful, please don’t hurry,”_  and so on.

At some point, in the midst of it all, John started to question the reality behind the intimacy, here. They’d done duets countless times, undoubtedly, but something about the domesticity of it all – Paul’s jolly little family, Paul’s little cousins with the same big doe-eyes as him squealing happily, the familiarity of Forthlin Road, all the endless days spent there writing and singing and laughing – made John hyper-aware that, perhaps, if he were a girl or, even, if Paul were a girl, he’d have been there that night as a  _date_. As a  _boyfriend._

The thought made him stumble over a lyric and Paul shot him a look, cackling tipsily. John smiled at him and, at one point, he thought, in an alternate reality, it would have felt natural to kiss Paul, then. Nothing too much. A peck on the lips – a gentle hand, comforting and tender, against the small of his back. And, in that alternate reality, everyone in the room would have harmonised in chorus’ of  _aw_ ’s, and  _I hear wedding bells!_ and  _gosh, how adorable._

That wasn’t the case, would never be, but John found himself craving a taste of a life that he hadn’t lived, nor would he ever live. He felt homesick for something that wasn’t real, and that almost knocked him sick.

The song carried on easily – the two of them exchanging lines, John with increasing sensuality and femininity, Paul with elevating bellows, really  _belting_  out notes.

When they reached the tumultuous crescendo of the tune, harmonising together for the second time with  _“Ah! Baby, it’s cold outside!”_ , they were joined in by the boisterous shouts and tuneful whistles of all of Paul’s family, looking over at them and swaying – the blokes with their arms thrown over each other, the girls singing along happily.

Paul hit the final chord and the two of them looked around; the whole house erupted in applause and laughter, and John felt Paul rise from the bench and take a bow. John laughed, a little bit humbled, warmed by the familial atmosphere he was surrounded with, utterly foreign to him. He wished he could have something like that, one day, maybe. Wondered, fleetingly, if Paul would be a part of it.

He felt Paul tap him on the shoulder, felt his hands pressed against his back as he budged free past him. John looked up at him.

“Goin’ upstairs for a bit,” he said. “You coming?”

John nodded his head, stood up abruptly (their absence by the piano was promptly filled by Jim, who started playing a happy and unfamiliar little diddy). As they wound through the small, but dense, crowd, people continued to clap in their direction.

John didn’t expect Paul’s tiny bedroom to come as much as a relief to him as it did, but  _God_ , it did. Paul flung himself straight down onto his bed, still giggling with the exhilaration of performing. John smiled down at him, walked slowly over to the bed, pulled out the wine bottles from beneath it and handed one to Paul.

He raised his eyebrows, smirking. “To music?” He offered, tilting his bottle towards Paul’s again.

Paul smirked back, leaned his bottle forward in return, the two touching briefly. “To music.”

They took a swig in unison, both of them wiping the back of their hands against their mouths afterwards. John found himself smiling with no prompting, his cheeks aching painfully, and he couldn’t remember the last time he’d ever felt euphoria like that. It hadn’t been anything like that when he’d went to that wedding with Cyn that time, or that Christening, or that  _anything._

Paul must have caught sight of John’s grin, because he started talking.

 _“Why,_  Ebenezer, has your ice-cold heart finally started to melt?” he sang, his voice young and boyish, and John laughed, shaking his head.

“Never,” he shot back, his own tone gruff and playfully confrontational.

Paul rolled over onto his stomach, his knees bent and his feet in the air, leaning on his elbows as he took another sip of wine. His hair had begun to curl with sweat, as had John’s, and both of them were staring at each other with flushed cheekbones and slightly chapped lips.

“Told you they’d like you,” Paul affirmed, grinning cheekily up at him. John leaned against the open window pane, welcomed the feeling of the icy breeze against his neck, wafting his hair around. “They’re nice, see.”

John nodded. “They’re lovely,” he conceded. “Layla’s missin’ out.”

Something about what John had said made Paul’s expression darken a little, but he shook himself out of it with another swig of wine. He’d drank just over half a bottle, now. John was about to warn him to slow down a bit when Paul’s voice shut him off.

“You thinkin’ of marryin’ into the family, then?” Paul joked, but he was staring up at John through his eyelashes with such pointedness that John couldn’t help but shift beneath the weight of it.  _There it is,_  John thought.  _That amorous little glint._

He let out a dry laugh, rubbed the back of his neck. “Sure,” he humoured him, nodding. “Anyone available?”

Paul sighed, forlorn, pressed the coldness of the wine bottle against his forehead. “Only me,” he breathed, and this time, John physically  _choked._  He took a few long swigs of his drink, warmth spilling into his gut.

He coughed a little, the wine suddenly tasting overwhelmingly strong. “Well, whaddaya’ say,” John risked, only half-joking. “Would ye’ have me?”

Paul laughed and, if John wasn’t much mistaken, there was a mournful tone to it. He looked at the bottle in his hands, swilled the red liquid around.

 _“Charming,”_  John said, sarcasm pooling in his voice, when no reply came. He shouldn’t have been disappointed. He  _shouldn’t_  have been. He wanted to smack himself.

Paul laughed again, the sound sweet and conflicting in John’s ears. The echo of it rang in his head, and he inwardly thanked whatever God was out there for giving humanity the  _blessing_  of alcohol.

John pressed further. “What if,” he started, couldn’t get himself to  _shut up_. “We were different.”

Paul, finally, looked up at him, and John trembled beneath the obliviousness of the gaze.

“What if,” he continued. “What if, one of us was a girl, or something?”

Paul scoffed, looking a bit offended, and John wanted to smack himself, again.  _“Me,_  you mean?”

John shook his head. Paul was touchy about that, and he should have known better, wanted to apologise. People used to pick on him, for being girlish. He suddenly wanted to knock the living daylights out of every single one of them. “Not necessarily,” he said. “Either of us. Although am not sure I’d make the prettiest of lasses."

Paul stared at him for a long time, his gaze sharp and a little temperamental. “And I would?”

John shrugged, but decided he didn’t like the idea all that much more than the idea of Paul as he  _was._  “You make a pretty enough bloke,” he said, and the words were out there before he could stop them.

Paul’s mouth fell a little ajar, and John spluttered, trying to figure out how he could reclaim the sentence, snatch it away from the air between them, throw them out into the wind.

“I’d have you,” Paul said, eventually, and John felt the air being knocked out of him. “If we were different. If it was different.”

John nodded, but he couldn’t quite shake the solemn look off his face. “Thanks,” he croaked out.

“John McCartney,” Paul laughed, the sound a little more hollow than usual. “Imagine that.”

John scrunched up his face, shook his head. “No,” he said. “We’d double-barrel. It’d have to be Lennon-McCartney, wouldn’t it? Much better.”

Paul groaned, and John, finally, managed a laugh. “Not this again,” Paul moaned, pressing his face against his pillow, then snapping his head back up. “McCartney-Lennon sounds _just_ as good.”

John scoffed. “I beg to differ,” he retorted, and this time, Paul’s laugh sounded far more robust, whole. John let out a breath he wasn’t aware he’d been holding.

Paul stared at him for a while, opened his mouth to say something, and then a rapid procession of knocks against the bedroom door made them both jump a little further apart, as if they’d been…

Paul coughed. “Yeah?” he shouted.

“Paul!” A chorus of juvenile voices sang.  _“Pauuuuul.”_

Paul let out an exhausted groan, slumped back against his bed covers. John laughed. “Didn’t know you were so popular.”

Paul took a final drink before stuffing the near-emptied bottle back under his bed. “Neither did I,” he said, shaking his head. John drank some of his wine, too, for good measure, then leaned over and handed it to Paul. “Time is it?” Paul asked.

John stretched out his arm, brought it back towards his face to look at his watch through his specs. “Christ,” he exclaimed. “Mimi’s gonna’ belt me. It’s near enough 10:30.”

Paul blinked. “Oh,” he said, and John’s chest ached at the deflated look on his face. “You going soon, then?”

They looked at each other for a moment, and John considered saying  _yeah, gonna have to_ , but Paul’s eyes were on him and they were damn near piercing his  _skin_ , and John cracked a submissive smile, leaned off the windowsill.

“Nah,” he replied. Paul’s bold, slightly drunken grin lit up the room. “T’is the festive season, after all. And anyway, you’re twatted,” he laughed when Paul glared at him. “Who’s gonna’ keep you from making a muck of yourself?”

The sound of a fucking rabid hoard of footsteps sounded on the landing, and another mantra of, _“Paul! Paul! Paul! Pauuul!”_  was underway.

“Come ‘ead,” John laughed, offering a hand out to him. Paul groaned as he lifted himself up, gripped John’s hand, their palms sliding together, softer than John had expected.

When Paul stood in front of him, still pressing their fingers together, John’s knees all but gave in. Paul was examining his face, almost, and John had to fight to maintain a deadpan expression. He looked at Paul’s eyes, green and browns and a little bit of wine-induced red, swallowed down a lump in his throat.

“I’d take Lennon-McCartney,” Paul said, eventually. John inhaled sharply. “If it was different.”

John smiled. “Yeah,” he said. “If it was different.”

Paul nodded, let go of John’s hand. John watched him walk towards the door, a slight delay in his footing, like he was sulking, or waiting for John to say something else, but John just watched, dumbstruck, thinking,  _how the hell did it get to this?_

Paul’s drunkenness seemed reasonably under-control, to John’s moderate surprise. After the kids had (miraculously) tired of him, Paul had sat on the settee next to Kath and her husband, Barry, who seemed a little more able-bodied than she was, and was leaning over on the arm of the sofa, nodding at whatever Paul was saying.

John was picking at the buffet in the mean-time, a plastic cup of lemonade in his hand. He nibbled on a cocktail stick: a slice of pineapple, then a sausage, then a pineapple, and John wondered for a moment what absolute lunatic came up with that combination.

He felt someone tap his shoulder, and he spun around to see Jim staring at him, a slightly placid look on his face. John smiled, a mouthful of sausage crammed behind his lips.

“I just wanted to say,” Jim started, his voice bold and brash. “That we appreciate you coming along.”

John nodded, swallowed down the food he’d been holding. “Thanks for havin’ me,” he replied, a static smile still forced against his mouth. Paul was  _far_ better at all of this  _talking respectably l_ ark than he was – in the back of his mind he pictured them in a massive house, Paul, older, chatting to guests, John observing contentedly. He growled out a quiet cough, passed it off as a sore throat.

“And,” Jim added. “I’m sorry about your mother,”  _Ah,_  John thought.  _There it is._  He had to force himself to not be irritated, tried to remember that Jim had lost his wife at the same time that Paul had lost his mum, tried to remember that, for perhaps the first time since John had met him, Jim McCartney was being amiable, and somehow that  _did_ make him feel better. A weight lifted off his shoulders.

John had always prided himself on not caring what anyone thought of him, but he was learning quite abruptly that, as a matter of fact, he  _did_  care, to a certain extent. He  _wanted_  to be liked, really, and accepted, and be able to stand next to Paul without the certainty of disapproving snarls being shot in his direction.

“Thank you,” he said, eventually, and Jim just nodded, patted a firm hand against John’s shoulder, gripped it a little, then disappeared into the kitchen where the majority of the men had taken refuge.

John had barely a second to process it, because as soon as the elder McCartney had disappeared, the younger came bounding up to him at full speed. John smiled, a flummoxed and startled smile, and Paul was frowning at him in shock.

“Did my dad just talk to you?”

John laughed. “Yeah,” he said, though Paul knew that already. “Said he’d be happy to have me in the family, y’know, and to call him Dad from now on.”

Paul rolled his eyes, jabbed John harshly in the ribs, and John hissed out a pained  _ow._

“I’m pullin’ your leg, Princess,” John chuckled, finished the last of his lemonade before putting it back down on the linen-draped table.

When John’s head was turned towards the window, he felt Paul lean in, his breath tickling his sideboards. John visibly shivered, and Paul chuckled into his ear.

“Will you come for a cig with me?” He whispered, so quiet that even John barely heard.

He turned his head to look at Paul again, their noses near enough touching. He nodded, pressed a hand against Paul’s back to guide him out the front way. He felt the wine still tainting the edges of his senses, welcomed it, and followed Paul towards the hallway.

Paul shut the living room door, then opened the front one, disappearing out into the freezing cold. John had the common sense to grab their coats off the rack before following.

“Oi,” he hollered. Paul stopped halfway down the path. John pelted his coat at him. “You’ll catch yer’ death out here.”

Paul grinned, lopsided, a little cocky. “Sorry, love,” he said, emphasis on the last word, before shrugging his coat on.

John threw his own over one arm, shut the door behind him, then saw to the other.

“Where we sneakin’ off to, then?” John asked, and Paul shrugged.

“Jigger?” He said, tilted his head towards the alleyway down the side of his house; before John could consent, Paul had already started walking, so John rolled his eyes but, inevitably, followed suit.

The alley was dark, lit only dimly by a streetlight which leaked a mustard yellow shade into it. John leaned against the wall, and Paul did the same, directly opposite.

“So…” John started, forgetting why they were there.

Paul laughed. “Fag, Johnny.”

John gaped at him. “Wha–”

 _“Cigarette,”_  Paul articulated. “Jesus.”

“Oh, yeah,” John forced out a laugh. “Sorry.”

He dug his hand deep into his coat pocket, pulled out his packet of Woodbine and a lighter he’d nabbed from Paul’s room earlier. He tapped the packet once and, as if by divine intervention, two fell out into his palm. He grinned, handed one of them to Paul and put the packet away again.

When John brought the lighter towards his own cigarette against his lips, concealing the flame from the slight trickle of cold wind blowing in around them, he took the opportunity to look at Paul’s gently illuminated face. He had his arms around his mid-section, hugging himself against the breeze. John held his gaze, then handed the light over to him.

John frowned when Paul batted his hand away.

Instead, Paul took a step closer. Instinctively, John took a step back, felt his back press harder against the wall.

Paul brought his cigarette to his lips, leaned in and, as he had done earlier in the night, pressed the two ends together.

Their eyes remained connected throughout and John tried, _hard,_  not to blink.

Embers flickered between them, a couple of stray bits of ash falling to the floor. Their cigarettes hissed, and John noticed that Paul’s was lit quite a while before he pulled away.

John raised his fingers slowly, pulled his cig out of his mouth, blew a cloud of smoke away, to the side, away from Paul’s face.

“Thank you,” Paul said, his voice soft.

“No worries,” John replied. He took another drag of his own, looked down the ginnel towards the softly glowing street.

John heard Paul’s relatives singing a simultaneously flamboyant and boisterous rendition of  _Silent Night,_  leaking out from the kitchen windows.

Paul laughed. “Sorry,” he cringed, sounding a little embarrassed. “They get dead into it.”

John shook his head. “Don’t be daft,” he reassured. “It’s nice.”

“Is it?”

“Yeah,” John replied.

Paul cleared his throat, and moments of calm silence passed between them, the hums of the party filling the archway.

“If it was different,” Paul spoke, suddenly, and John’s heart stopped beating. “Would you have me, too?”

John swallowed and looked up at Paul, who was watching him intently, his arm raised effeminately to the side, cigarette dipping between two slender fingers. He considered his response, bit his lip.

“If it was different?” John repeated, looking at Paul with interrogational eyes, opened, his eyebrows falling a little to the sides.

Paul gnawed at his bottom lip, nodded his head.

John laughed, a whisper of a thing. “Paul,” John started, and John saw Paul flinch a little. “I’d have you if it  _wasn’t.”_

Paul’s mouth hung open. This time, John felt no need to snatch the words away, to turn back time, to throw anything into the wind.

John watched Paul take one last drag of his cig, throw it to the side with careless abandon. Anticipation clung to the air, the atmosphere sharp, intense.

Paul looked up, took a step towards him. “It isn’t different,” Paul noted, as if still considering what John had meant.

John nodded his head. “I know.”

It took John longer than it usually would have to notice that Paul was slowly, tentatively, moving in closer.

“To us, then,” Paul whispered. John was shocked by the brevity, the _boldness,_  of what was going on, thanked the heavens for alcohol and for Christmas and for Paul McCartney. “No different.”

John nodded. “To us,” he conceded, and then Paul’s lips were molded against his and, suddenly, there was nothing tentative about it.

Paul’s hands felt like they were everywhere at once – on John’s neck, in John’s hair, inside his coat, untucking his shirt and tracing lines up and down his ribs, leaving traces of goosebumps wherever his fingers went, cold but indescribably  _warm_  at the same time. John planted his hands firmly on either side of Paul’s face, cigarette forgotten, holding him close, sliding their lips together with such ferocity that John had  _never_  experienced before in his _life._  Paul’s lips felt naturally puckered, and they slid against John’s with ease and surprising familiarity, like this was something that had happened an infinity of times before, in every possible lifetime, in every different scenario – John and Paul, blended together, in blissful ignorance of the world around them, kissing and loving and kissing and  _loving._

John found it in him to lower his hands away from Paul’s face, their lips still joined. John wrapped his arms around Paul’s waist, yanked him closer, the two of them exhaling in unison as their crotches slid against one another.

John took it upon himself to push Paul towards the other wall, so that he was pressed against it. He heard Paul let out a soft laugh, his breath rising in vapour between them. John brought one arm up, planted his palm against the wall beside Paul’s head.

When he brought their lips together again, he felt Paul’s tongue dragging along his bottom lip and groaned into his mouth, eliciting a moan in return.

“Want you,” John muttered against him, kissed him again. “Need you,” he went on, barely aware that he was even speaking.

“Have me,” Paul obliged, sliding a leg between John’s that John, intuitively, bucked down against, gasping as he felt his cock start to harden against Paul’s leg.

“Will,” John promised; the word came out somewhere between a laugh and a sob. John dared himself to bring the hand that had been on Paul’s waist down between them, palmed Paul through his pants. Paul gasped, loudly, slapped both of his hands down against the bricks behind him.

“Alright, there?” John asked, surprising himself with the sturdiness of his own voice.

Paul laughed breathlessly. “Shut up,” he managed, before John started unfastening Paul’s trousers and, with very little hesitation, dipped his hand, warmed by Paul’s waist, into his pants.

 _“Fuck,”_  Paul breathed. John watched as his head rolled back against the wall, his eyes fluttering shut, mouth hanging open. “Oh, _fuck,_  Johnny.”

John smirked, wolfish and careless. He traced his fingers along Paul’s length. He’d never felt a dick before – none that weren’t his own, anyway, and the feeling of it sent chills running down his spine, made his own cock twitch in interest. When John wrapped his fingers around Paul, at the base, he felt him stiffen in his grip.

 _“God,_  Paul,” he exhaled, forced their lips together, his tongue sliding naturally into Paul’s mouth. He pulled away for breath, and Paul actually _whined_. “You’re so good,” he gasped, kissed the corner of Paul’s mouth, started pumping his hand a little faster. “Feel so good, baby,” he growled, pushed his own length against Paul’s thigh.

As John’s wrist sped up its movements, he tuned in specifically to the sound of Paul’s breathing, sharp and shallow and quick; John moaned quietly, tucked his face into his neck, breathed in the overwhelming smell of _Paul_  – sweat, the sweet scent of his house, his shampoo, the remnants of some stolen cologne. John kissed the skin there, first, then brought a small area of it between his teeth, nibbled curiously, grinned when Paul gasped and raised a hand against John’s back, holding him in place.

John could feel Paul’s length throbbing slightly against his palm, and he slowed down, kissed Paul’s neck slowly.

“Inside,” Paul commanded, and John was grateful that this was Paul and that, apparently, they were always in some way on the exact same wavelength. “My room, come on,” he whispered, raised his hand to John’s face and brought him in for a firm and wet kiss. John removed his hands from Paul’s trousers, pressed their lips together again, not wanting it to end, not even for a minute. It didn’t feel  _real._

John stood away, watched Paul do his pants back up, flatten his hair down a little.

“You’re gorgeous,” John laughed, incredulous as to how any of this was happening, disbelieving to how Paul was stood before him, his  _best friend,_  smiling that bright because of  _John’s_  lips, John’s hands, John’s words.

Paul grinned, his face blushing bright and pink, his eyelashes looking wet. “Come on, then,” he called, sauntering off down the alley like he owned the world, and John followed, more than willing, the happiest he’d felt in years.

 

 

They managed to sneak into Paul’s room with no obstacles, _thank fuck,_ because John’s hard-on wasn’t easing up and by the sound of Paul’s sigh of relief when they shut the door and locked it, neither was his.

It was slightly weirder, seeing Paul again in clear light, in the familiar setting of his bedroom; Paul walked away, shut his window and the curtains, then turned to look at John, took off his coat and dumped it over the back of the chair by his desk. He set to yanking off his tie, threw that, too, and then started unbuttoning his shirt, and it was only then that John realised he’d been staring, uselessly, immovable.

“John,” Paul said, cocked an eyebrow in his direction. “This is okay, right?”

John nodded, though his throat felt tight. “Yes,” he managed, and Paul smiled, kept unbuttoning his shirt but  _slower,_ taking tentative steps towards John from across the room. The party still boomed beneath them, despite the late hour.

John watched as Paul finished unbuttoning his shirt, shrugged it off his shoulders effortlessly. His chest was littered in dark hairs, that trail leading down to Paul’s cock from his naval that John had seen before at sleepovers now carried _whole new_  connotations, and John nearly let out a sob.

He looked towards Paul’s face, and Paul looked up, too, their eyes meeting as they had done so many times, but never with this  _honesty_  there, absolutely nothing in between them but  _air._

Paul held John’s stare as he lowered his hands towards his crotch, started undoing the buttons of his trousers, kicked his shoes off simultaneously.

John wanted to move, help Paul undress, kiss him senseless,  _all over,_ but he didn’t. He waited, instead, watched Paul tuck his fingers under the waistline of his briefs, push them down his thighs and let them pool at the floor.

His cock was hard, conspicuous beneath a tangled sea of dark hairs, and John licked his lips, his mouth watering. Paul swallowed, looking a little shy, and John wanted to kiss his worries away – and this time, he did.

He moved forward and, a tender hand against Paul’s cheek, kissed him softer than he had done before. Let their lips meet naturally, grazing against each other languidly; John felt Paul move into the kiss, too, tilted his head to the side, his fringe tickling against John’s forehead.

“If it was different,” Paul murmured, startling John. “I’d have asked you to marry me, one day, you know.”

John laughed, leaned back. They looked at each other for a second, John smiling down, flitting between Paul’s eyes. “We’ve got plenty of time for  _that,_ love,” he said, thinking was  _me too me too me too me too me too me too._

Paul blinked. “If it was different,” he continued. “Would you have said yes?”

John couldn’t help but chuckle at the ridiculousness of the question. He pressed their lips together again, smiled against them this time. “A million times over,” he promised. Paul let out a strangled breath.

“Will you come next year, too? To Christmas.”

John smirked. “I’ve not came  _this_  Christmas, yet,” he joked, received a well-deserved smack to the top of his head.

“Piss off,” Paul laughed. He pressed his body against John’s, and John pressed his hands to the small of Paul’s bare back, let his hands teeter downwards, gripped Paul’s arse cheeks and pulled Paul against him,  _melted_ when Paul gasped against his mouth.

John started pushing him, gently, over towards the single bed where they’d top and tailed so many times, wanted to laugh at the irony of it, the stark contrast of  _then_  and  _now._ He felt Paul pushing his coat off his shoulders – let him do it. Paul’s hands, then, were tugging at his tie, loosening it, pulling it over his head. John pressed his forehead against Paul’s, let his eyes fall shut,  _breathed._

Paul was unbuttoning his shirt, stealthy as you like; he shoved that off his back and tugged the sleeves over his hands. John heard the thin fabric drop to the floor, and then Paul’s naked chest was flush against his own, and John growled audibly, kissed Paul repeatedly, manically, like his life depended on it.

He lowered his hand, again, unable to help himself from touching Paul for much longer, stroked it back into full erection. Paul moaned into his mouth, and John pushed him onto the bed so that he was leaning up on his elbows, long legs hanging off the edge.

He leaned down, then – kissing his way down Paul’s neck, Paul’s  _chest,_ hesitating a second to swipe his tongue over Paul’s nipple, then continued down his tummy, his naval – in a moment of desire, John buried his face against Paul’s pubic hair, inhaled the sharp and intoxicating scent of sheer  _musk_ , and then, listening to Paul’s breathing derail slightly, he took Paul into his mouth.

“ _Ah! –_ Jo _hn_ ,” Paul called out in a struggling whisper. John looked up at him, their eyes meeting as John bobbed down, taking as much of Paul as he could before he gagged a little, tried to hide it, but saw Paul chuckle with bizarre fondness anyway. John closed his eyes, pulled off Paul’s cock, then lowered his mouth down again, his tongue pressing hard against the underside.

 _“John,”_  Paul moaned, and John lifted one hand to stroke Paul’s thigh in response. Paul’s hand became tangled in John’s hair, tugging on the handful, and John groaned loudly against Paul’s dick.

“Oh,  _fuck,”_  Paul gasped from above him,  _“Faster_ , Johnny,” he begged, so John sped up his actions, taking Paul in and sliding him back out again in quicker takes, now that he’d become a little more accustomed to the hot weight of Paul’s dick against his tongue. After a few more bobs of his head, John started to suck Paul’s tip a little when he slid Paul out, and Paul called out his name again.

John gripped his thigh tighter, encouraging him into silence, but then he realised that the party downstairs didn’t appear to be quieting down quite yet, and no one could have possibly heard them, not really, so John just let his eyes fall shut, basked in the hot, saline taste of pre-cum in his mouth, lathered it up readily, felt like he was flying.

Paul’s grip tightened in John’s hair, a guttural groan encompassing the whole room, and before John knew what was happening, hot and viscous liquid was running down his throat – John choked, sputtered, a little, but continued to take Paul into his mouth again regardless, guiding him through it – John felt light-headed, all of a sudden, lost in it all. When Paul sighed, long and loud, and slumped back against the wall behind the bed, John pulled his lips off of his dick, kissed the tip almost affectionately.

He took a second to regain his breath, looked at Paul in this foreign state of post-coital ecstasy. His eyes were drooping, half-mast, his lips hanging plump and slack, the dips beneath his eyes reddened.

Paul caught a glimpse of John staring at him, shut his eyes, smiled lazily. “Stop lookin’ at me,” he giggled. John’s heart swelled twice its size inside his ribcage. “Am spent.”

John grinned, leaned up and pressed a soft kiss against Paul’s slightly parted lips.

“Mm,” Paul hummed against him. John pulled away and rested his knee, still covered in his drainies, between Paul’s opened legs on the bed, his cock lying flaccid between them. John placed his head against Paul’s chest, flopping to the side of him, felt Paul’s arm wrap around his shoulder. His hand felt warm over John’s collar bone.

Paul’s heartbeat was slow, calm, but his chest was rising and falling with significant intonations. John felt Paul’s lips pressing against the top of his head.

“If it was different,” John managed, panting slightly. “D’you reckon it still would have been that good?”

Paul seemed to think about it for a moment, then let out a single syllabled laugh. “No, actually,” he answered, stroking his fingers through John’s curl. “I think that’s about as good as it gets, love.”

John smirked. “Oh, I’ll hold you to that, Macca,” he said, felt Paul smirk against his head. “Mark my words, I will.”

Paul sighed in, John  _hoped_ , some degree of tranquility. “Are you glad you came, then?” He asked, eventually.

John nodded, felt the skin on Paul’s chest rub against his cheek, took comfort in the intimacy of the feeling. “I love Christmas,” he mumbled, pressed his eyes closed, suddenly lethargic.

Paul giggled. “You soft sod,” he chastised.

“Wouldn’t have it any other way,” John muttered. He tucked an arm around Paul’s side, pulled him in closer, inhaled him in.

The following December, when they were sat in George’s kitchen sipping brews expertly produced by Mrs Harrison, John gleamed enthusiastically, asked, “When’s the Christmas Party, Paul?”

And when Paul smiled back, tender and warm and fundamentally festive, John was just grateful that George didn’t ask any questions.

**Author's Note:**

> I hope you liked it!
> 
> Please remember to leave comments & kudos, they make me soso happy! Thank you!


End file.
